12.2.18 Darth, bedroom window
My wicked soot-sprite: dragon-toothed and dragon-tempered. He stalks my house all day long, as wild as the day I found him. You can tell the weather from his ears, both the kind that storms inside of him and without. Dark hair stiff and trouble's afoot. A softening and sudden tip to one side, all four paws in the air like a puppy begging for a belly rub, and all is well. He has a purr that could wake mountains and a bite that could bleed one dry.
He is all play with a dark motive, eyes always like dinner plates, his sleek flank instantly snaking in front of whatever you are trying to do. Without fail, he will seek out every single focus of your attention and insert himself into it like an unmoveable shadow. Books and keyboards must be smothered, shaken duvets must be charged under, meals interrupted. Shoo him on and you'll only turn to find him still sat silently a foot away, eyes wide, back stiff, long tail curved neatly round front paws, waiting for his opening, eyes on your calves.
He chirrups to himself like a bird when he's cross, marching the landing, up and down, meeting your gaze to issue long, musical proclamations. Ignore him and he'll open every cupboard and door he can get his claws into, or find something shreddable and leave his mark. He shuns laps and so to quieten him, you must scoop him up in your arms, where he'll lie transformed, content and still and watchful, until you're forced to put him down again. It's at this point he'll frown hard and puff out the air through his nose and you will swear you see smoke. He hoards balls and toys and treasures, raiding the terraced gardens to bring them to you. Pigeons' eggs are a favourite, as are mice, laid all in a line. He is a devil, through and through, and I have never loved an animal more.
My friends are convinced he is enchanted and it is only a matter of time before I accidentally find the words or the charm to give him voice.
Perhaps he'll grant me wishes. I'd wish for him by my side always first.